


Battle Hymns

by FloriaTosca



Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Animals, Erastil, Ficlet Collection, Gay Male Character, Gen, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Paladins, Ragathiel, Revenge, Slice of Life, a simple country paladin, demon hunting, technically imps but the same idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloriaTosca/pseuds/FloriaTosca
Summary: A collection of paladin-centric ficlets, featuring warriors of good from a variety of Golarion's religious traditions.





	1. Ragathiel: His Terrible Swift Sword

As the shell of the archbaron’s summer house smoldered around her, Francesca Castaneda numbly busied herself separating the living and the dead. She patted down the unconscious household guards and servants and dragged their bodies onto the lawn. Then she lined up the corpses of the archbaron, his bodyguard, and his court mage, cut their heads off as neatly as a Galtish farm wife butchering a counter-revolutionary goose, and hoisted them onto an improvised pyre made from the archbaron’s patio furniture and a few gallons of fancy scented lamp oil. Francesca tossed an alchemist’s fire onto the pyre and watched grimly until the bones began to char. She knew that there was still a chance that the archbaron’s wealthy connections would spring for a high-end resurrection if his earlier incompetence hadn’t fatally alienated them, but she was damned if she was going to make it easy for them.

_Not that I wouldn’t be damned anyway,_ she thought, with a mirthless chuckle. A waft of particularly acrid smoke caught her in the face, sending her into a watery-eyed coughing fit. Francesca struggled to get control over her lungs, but instead of easing, the coughs turned into terrible choking sobs, and she found herself crying harder than she had since the funeral.

A good cry is supposed to be cathartic, but when Francesca’s tears ran dry, she felt as sorrowful as ever, without the buttressing of numbness and rage that had kept her going through long months of her quest. _It’s over_ , she thought. Relief would have been too positive and optimistic a term for what she felt, but there was a certain… lift that came from knowing that she was _done_ , mission accomplished, and she didn’t have to carry on any longer. Francesca felt less like she was being crushed by a nigh-unbearable weight and more like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. She knelt next to the pyre, took out her sword, and just stared at it for a long moment.

_I hope you weren’t planning to use that on yourself._

“Shit!” Francesca spun around and saw the prettiest horse she had ever laid eyes on - a shimmering palomino destrier with ridiculously long eyelashes, straight off the cover of a _Ponies and Paladins_ novel. Francesca wouldn’t have been surprised to find she had finally gone mad, but she hadn’t expected hallucinations that took their cues from little girls’ horse books.

_I am no vision of madness_ , said the horse, straight into her head. _Touch me, if you are still unconvinced._ Francesca walked up and stroked the horse’s flank. It _felt_ like a real horse, and it _smelled_ like a real horse, only cleaner and with a hint of church incense. Francesca decided to go along with it. _I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, Francesca. But you can’t die yet. There are still things for you to do._

“Festering hell! I forgot about the animals!” Despairing grief temporarily pushed aside by duty, Francesca rushed off towards the stables to let the horses out into their paddock. When her path took her past the subdued but indisputably living household servants heaped on the villa’s lawn, she skidded to a halt, and, in some distant part of her mind, felt a bit silly.

“All right,” Francesca told the magic horse. “Who are you and what the Hell do you want with me?”

_Not Hell_ , said the horse, _Heaven. I come bearing a message from my celestial lord._

“So you’ve come to offer me a warning before he smites my ass? I have to say, that is real courteous of you. Although you’re a little late.”

The horse pawed the ground irately. _No, to offer you a job._

“What?! Look,” Francesca said, gesturing to the destruction around her. “There must be some mistake. This - this was all me. Okay, some of the fire was the mage, but I started it. And this wasn’t all of it. I am a murderer several times over.”

_We know exactly what you are, Francesca Castaneda. And my lord has need of people like you._

“Does he really, now?”

_Think of it this way, Francesca. Has any good ever come of appealing to the better nature of an omox demon?_

“Could you use them for compost if you soaked them in holy water first?”

_I would not advise it_ , the horse said primly.

Francesca didn’t see how a possibly hallucinatory heavenly mind-talking warhorse would be any expert on the messier aspects of gardening, but she had no basis on which to argue. “Would you mind clearing something up first?” she asked, speaking very carefully and soberly and trying to keep all hints of possible impending hysterics out of her voice through sheer willpower. “You clearly know me, but I don’t know anything about you. Who are you, and who’s your heavenly overlord with a soft spot for angry widows?”

_My lord understands righteous wrath_. Francesca certainly knew from wrath, although she wasn’t sure righteousness had anything to do with it. _I am Manifold Glories of the Holy Fire, Trampler of Fiends. I serve Ragathiel._

That name sounded vaguely familiar. “Wait, isn’t he the one whose cult was banned in Korvosa for ‘fomenting zealotry and vigilante justice’? No offense.”

_None taken. We don’t like the government of Korvosa either._

One of the concussed servants groaned, struggled to sit up, and collapsed back on the grass. “Should we go talk somewhere else?” Francesca asked. The horse nodded and ambled off to a more secluded part of the grounds. Francesca followed, bemused. “And is Manifold Glories of the Holy Fire shorter in Celestial? If it isn’t, would you rather go by Glory or Manny?” The horse refused to dignify that with a response.

Their path took them to the rose garden, where Manifold Glories of the Holy Fire began daintily nibbling the fattest buds off a pampered Taldan Everbloomer. “So your boss is the god of getting angry at evil people.” The horse nodded - was it bad manners to mind-speak with your mouth full? “And he wants to hire me to get angry at evil people on his behalf here on Golarion?” Another equine nod. “Does he have anyone specific in mind?” 

_Have you heard of the Worldwound?_

“Who hasn’t? Some bright spark ripped a hole in reality and demons came pouring out. You want me to go there?”

_Demons need a lot of killing_.

“Can’t argue with you there.”

_You agree?_

“Sure! Why not? It beats ‘perish in a fearsome last stand against Chelish law enforcement’, which was my plan before this.”

Manifold Glories’ ears perked up and turned forward, as if the horse were listening to something in the distance. _Time grows short, Francesca. Let us leave this wretched place. Gather your weapons._

“I have them all right here. Didn’t want one of the servants to wake up and try to stab me with something I left behind.”

Manifold Glories whickered approvingly. _Good human. We must make haste. Get on my back._

Francesca hadn’t ridden bareback since she was a kid, but she managed to mount up without making a complete fool of herself. As Manifold Glories trotted away from the grounds - presumably, toward the Worldwound and whatever lay in wait for them there - something nagged at the back of Francesca’s mind. “Dammit, should I have put the fires out before I left?” Just because the archbaron had been an asshole didn’t mean she wanted to burn down the entire district.

_It’s been a wet spring. I wouldn’t worry._

“All right, then. On to the Worldwound.”

_That’s the spirit!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, "Francesca Castaneda" is a Punisher shout-out.


	2. Erastil: Country Roads, Take Me Home

Karl woke up to the feeling of four hard little paws on his chest and a wet nose in his ear. “What the hell, Daisy,” he grumbled. “I let you out with the big dogs before everyone went to bed. Go to _sleep_.” Daisy wouldn’t settle, and now that Karl was awake, he heard the big dogs fussing in the front room and someone pounding on the door.

“Gods-dammit, what is it this time?” Karl asked. His husband Mikel shrugged from beneath his cocoon of blankets. Karl briefly battled the desire to go back to sleep and handle things in the morning, but his paladin calling won out over comfort and common sense. Karl put on his dressing gown and slippers, lit the lantern, picked up his cudgel in case this was another damn goblin prank, and left to answer the front door, Daisy at his heels. 

“I’ll keep the bed warm for you,” Mikel promised. And, true to his word, he spread out to cover as much of the bed as possible and went back to sleep.

At least it wasn’t goblins. It was Mr. Jakoby, the half-orc hop farmer. “Sorry to get you up so late, Sheriff,” he said. “But I figured you should know as soon as possible.”

“Know what, Mr. Jakoby?”

“We got imps in the chicken house.”

When you needed to wake up in a hurry, it turned out that news of a possible infernal invasion was as good as a dunk in the rain barrel. “Are the kids safe?”

Mr. Jakoby nodded. “Tharka took ‘em to the tavern. Whole place is warded like a shrine.”

Karl nodded. “Good thinking. Now, are you _sure_ it was imps?”

“Unless gremlins have bat wings nowadays, I don’t see what else it could be.”

Karl took a moment to curse, in his head, the rudimentary level of monster lore education offered by village dame schools. “What did they smell like?”

“Fireworks, Sheriff. Real smoky ones.”

Well, that narrowed it down to imps or fire mephits, at least. “Why don’t you come in, Mr. Jakoby? I’m going to need a few minutes to get everything together. And can I offer you a warm-up?”

“That’d be delightful.” So Mr. Jakoby settled down in the front room and had to manage the affections of five very hospitable dogs without spilling his tea. Karl poured a cup from the samovar for himself - strong, no lemon or milk, two sugars - and thus fortified, began his preparations for battle.

“Wake up, honey,” he said when he reached the bedroom. “Jakoby’s got imps in the chicken house and I need you to get Silverfang ready.” Mikel groaned, but got up, pulled a sweater over his long johns, and began unpacking the chest where they kept the wargear.

Silverfang was a cross between a war mastiff and one of those wolfy Ulfen sled dogs, with a pinch of celestial spirit. He was the former mount of a halfling paladin of Iomedae, who’d had the dog’s teeth alchemically infused with blessed silver as preparation for the crusade at the Worldwound. Unfortunately, the paladin had perished in a flash flood and hadn’t lived long enough to discover that silver wasn’t terribly efficacious against _demons_. 

Karl put on some real clothes and his armor, and geared up. Longbow - of course. Regular arrows, silver arrows, cold iron arrows in case they’d got quasits or gremlins on their hands. Daggers for close quarters - not much room to draw a bow in a chicken house. Fire ward gel in case of fire mephits. Bags of flour if the little bastards tried any invisibility bullshit. Antitoxin. Holy water.

“Jakoby, you know what to do with a knife?” Karl asked.

“I was a butcher’s apprentice.”

“But were you any good at it?” Mikel chimed in.

“Give me a side of beef sometime and watch me.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Karl said, and grabbed another silver dagger for Mr. Jakoby. The man had brought his hatchet, but plain steel wasn’t always much use against otherworldly creatures.

By this point, Mikel had helped Silverfang into his armor and equipment harness. Karl loaded the dog up with the excess gear, kissed his husband goodbye, collected Mr. Jakoby, and set off for the hop farm.

The sky was clear and the moon was almost full, so light wasn’t a problem, but Mr. Jakoby had managed to wake him up during the coldest part of the night. As he crunched through the silver-frosted grass, Karl was very glad that he’d taken the time to get fully dressed and hadn’t just thrown on his armor over his nightclothes. 

“How’d you find out about the imps in the first place?” Karl asked. “It’s a little early to be gathering eggs.”

“Dog started yapping and fussing,” Jakoby replied. “Thought it might be goblins again so I got the hatchet and a bucket of water and went out into the yard to check. Heard the rooster kicking up a gods-awful racket so I checked the chicken house. Smell of fireworks, feathers everywhere, rooster clawing the hell out of _something_ with bat wings, hens screaming their fool heads off - it was a mess. I chased the little bat-wing things out of the henhouse but they could still be on the property.”

_So we get to hunt devils in the dark_ , Karl thought. _Oh joy_. But that was why he’d brought Silverfang. Besides all his other talents, the dog had an incomparable nose for brimstone. 

“I’ll take point with the dog,” Karl said. “You keep an eye out for anything trying to sneak up on us in the dark.”

“Sounds good.” 

They crossed the property line without incident. Karl swept the lantern’s beam over the paddock, then checked the haystack. He felt no evil presence, but he did disturb a small cluster of sprites sleeping under the roof of the hay rack. 

“Whaddaya want?” one of them grumbled in a fluty little voice.

“Sorry to wake you up, guys,” Jakoby said. “But the farm’s been attacked by imps. Little sulfury-smelling guys with horns and wings, about your size. Have you seen them?” They all shook their tiny heads.

“Well, be careful,” Karl told them. “Silver’s best if you have to fight them.” He gave one of his extra silver daggers to the strongest-looking sprite. “This’d be a broadsword for you, but you look like you could manage it. And I suggest keeping watches until this is dealt with.” The sprites nodded their understanding.

“What kind of animals do you have, apart from chickens?” Karl asked Jakoby, as they continued on their way. “Imps are fine with property damage, but they’d really rather torment something who can appreciate it.”

“We’ve got a dog, but he’s with Tharka and the kids. And Big Bob the plow horse,” Jakoby said.

“Any protections on him?”

“We have Magda do the usual wards every year. And we got him blessed shoes when that dwarf smith-priest came through.”

Karl nodded approvingly. “The imps won’t like that. Any other critters?”

“Barn cat, couple of milk goats, sow with her first litter.”

“What’s closer, the barn or the pig pen?”

“Pigs.”

As soon as they got within sight of the pig pen, Silverfang started barking and herding Karl and Jakoby toward it like a couple of particularly slow-witted sheep.

“ _Something’s_ there,” Karl said. Jakoby nodded, and the two men picked up their pace.

The pig pen was a mess, and not the usual kind of mess you get from pigs engaged in normal pig activities. It looked like the aftermath of a tavern brawl. The piglets, some of whom carried swollen marks like the world’s largest bee sting, were all huddled in a corner squalling their little lungs out. The sow - a remarkably chubby black-and-white specimen of the normally mellow Darkmoon Vale breed - was chomping her teeth and screeching like a war elephant with blazing murder shining in her little piggy eyes. A small bat-winged corpse lay trampled under her hooves, and another gargoylish little figure was was backed against the far wall of the sty. The imp looked at the sow, then looked at Karl and Jakoby, and even by lantern light it was clear that it understood its circumstances. If it hadn’t been a purely evil invader from the infernal realms, Karl would have felt sorry for the little bastard.

The imp made a last-ditch effort to fly out of the sow’s reach, and managed to get aloft despite the lack of room to maneuver. Unfortunately for the imp, the only path to the exit that avoided the sow and the people took it straight into the path of Silverfang, who rose in a magnificent leap to catch the imp like the world’s largest and most malign tennis ball.

The imp managed to sting Silverfang on the nose in its struggles, but the dog’s mighty mastiff jaw muscles and silver-infused teeth made quick work of the little devil.

“Good boy!” Jakoby said. “ _Best_ boy!”

“You did good, pal,” Karl said. Silverfang thumped his tail happily.

Jakoby crept toward the sty, and tried to take a closer look at the piglets without attracting the wrath of their mother. “Karl, it looks like some of little ones got stung. This something I need to worry about?”

“Not if they’re still moving around,” Karl said. “Imp venom isn’t generally lethal. If any of them can’t move on their own you’ll need to keep an eye to make sure they’re still breathing all right. Was this all of them?”

“Not sure. All I know is there was more than one.”

“Okay, then,” said Karl. “Let’s check the barn next.”


End file.
